Chapter 24 Burn the Bridge, Salt the Earth, Block the Number
Burn the Bridge, Salt the Earth, Block the Number
There was a specific kind of quiet at the Hawthorne Estate.
Not the soft, pastoral kind with birdsong and rustling trees. No, this was curated silence. A stillness designed to sharpen the mind and unsettle the nerves. The sort of quiet you only heard in rooms filled with expensive secrets and decades of unspoken power.
Lord Charles Hawthorne, Earl of Avondale, stood at the tall windows of his study, watching fog roll in over the northern gardens like an accusation. His posture was straight, hands clasped behind his back, whiskey untouched on the sideboard.
Behind him, his assistant Miles hovered awkwardly, holding a tablet like it might bite him.
“They’re calling him the ‘Meme King of Caledonia,’” Miles said.
“Are they,” Hawthorne murmured.
“#RoyalRizz is trending. Apparently it started as a joke, but it’s taken off. There are shirts.”
“Shirts.”
“With crown emojis.”
Hawthorne didn’t turn. “And the story?”
“Dead in the water. Everyone’s laughing about it. Deux-Luxe called it ‘the first time palace comms didn’t feel like a funeral.’ The Gilded Mirror ran a follow-up piece accusing themselves of overreacting.”
Hawthorne was silent for a beat.
Then, very softly, “That meme.”
Miles shifted. “It was Sebastian. Had to be. The tone was pure Sebastian.”
At that, Hawthorne finally turned. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp as cut obsidian.
“He’s supposed to be feeding us intel,” Hawthorne said. “Not running digital defense for the king.”
Miles cleared his throat. “But sir, there’s something else. About his recent activities…we’ve had… reports.”
“What kind of reports?”
“He’s been spending more time at the palace. Not just official visits. Late nights. Private access.” Miles paused. “—he’s also been in touch with his uncle in Paris.”
Hawthorne’s expression didn’t change. But something colder crept into the room.
“Jér?me,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Hawthorne moved slowly to his desk and picked up his phone, pressing a single number on speed dial.
Miles watched, half-anxious, half-fascinated. He’d seen the Earl gut political careers over dinner. Whatever was about to happen—he wouldn’t look away.
The call rang once.
Twice.
“Father,” Sebastian’s voice answered, lazy and unbothered as ever. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Or is this just your weekly reminder that love is a weakness and so is democracy?”
“I’m not in the mood for games,” Hawthorne said flatly.
A pause. Sebastian’s tone shifted, the lazy amusement cooling. “Ah. So this is that kind of call.”
“I know you posted that meme.”
“Really? That’s what you’re mad about?”
“It’s about what it represents, Sebastian. Whose side you’re really on. Don’t forget what I’ve given you.”
Sebastian’s voice lost some of its silk. “How could I, when you constantly remind me?” A sound suggested he was pacing. “You’ve given me assignments dressed as trust. You taught me how to lie, how to bury, how to disappear problems. And now you have the nerve to try and make me thank you for it.”
“And now you owe Alexander?”
“No.” Sebastian’s tone wasn’t defiant—it was tired. Honest. “I owe myself. And maybe, for once, I want to be useful to someone who isn’t sharpening a knife behind my back just to see how deep it can go.”
A long, thin silence stretched between them.
Then Hawthorne’s voice dropped to that slow, clinical chill he saved for enemies and heirs.
“Be careful who you think is safe. You’ve built your life in shadows, Sebastian. You don’t get to play at sincerity now.”
“I’m not playing.”
“Do you think the palace can afford to keep you around once they realize what you’ve done for me? What you’ve cleaned up?”
Sebastian didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch. Just let the words wash over him like water over stone.
“Said the man who’s never trusted anyone in his life.”
Charles laughed, “After everything I’ve taught you, you’re really still this naive?”
“Even if everyone cuts me out of their life, it will still be infinitely better than playing your sick little games.”
“I’ve also heard you’ve been talking to your uncle,” Charles continued.
“He’s the only real family I have left.” Sebastian said simply. “You tried to cut me off from him after I moved here.”
“Please, Sebastian. He was Maddy’s party boy younger brother. It wasn’t as if he was going to raise you.” Charles paused, the hint of a sneer in his voice. “Your sentimentality will be your undoing. Just like it was for your mother.”
And finally, Sebastian said it.
No bravado. No theatrical fury. Just a low, cutting truth.
“Go to hell Charles.” Sebastian said just before he hung up.
The line went dead, and so did the moment.
For a moment, the only sound was the grandfather clock, its ticks slicing through the silence. Charles set the phone down, his knuckles whitening briefly.
He turned to the window, fog swallowing the city below. “Miles,” he said, voice smooth as ice. “Every message. Every move. If Sebastian so much as breathes near someone, I want their name.”
Miles nodded, fingers hesitating over the tablet. “Yes, sir.”
“And start a narrative. Slow. Personal. Let him remember who he is when the lights go out.”
Miles swallowed. “You want to ruin him?”
Charles’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “I want him to come home.”
He turned back toward the window, watching the fog settle like a curtain on the city below.
So, Sebastian wanted his independence? Then he could pay for it.
And Charles Hawthorne always collected what he was owed.